Of a Demon That Is Dreaming
by Anti-Puff
Summary: After being apprehended by Naomi Misora and sent to the hospital's burn ward, Beyond Birthday finds a chance to escape.  Once free, he lays low in a remote cabin he procured for situations like this.  Mysterious scratching implies he is not alone.
1. Chapter 1

"And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,  
>And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;<br>And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor  
>Shall be lifted - nevermore!"<p>

-The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe, 1845

* * *

><p>The racking breaths between Its frenzied mewling were the most infuriating. B could only make out a dim impression of his yammering neighbor; a nervous fluttering of light and shadow, moving like the wings of a frightened insect. If B could, he would wrap his hands around Its trachea and squeeeeze until Its hyoid bone cracked. A soft crunch, like stepping on the shell of a beetle. Mmmmmnn. Fantasy would have to suffice; B's hands were cuffed to the railing of his burn-ward hospital bed. That, and Its time had not yet come.<p>

Though his vision was mostly ruined, he could still see the names and life spans of the people around him. They wandered ghost-like through B's grey world. What had since birth isolated him from those around him was now all he had to connect with humanity. B had lost. Skin, hair, sight, the game, L's subservience. All lost. Even his own death was denied him.

"A-Aaaaghhh!"

The phrenetic flutter of black against white muddled what was happening in the next cot, but it was simple enough to deduce that It was flailing Its arms wildly. B gritted his teeth. Was he to be denied even reverie?

"_Stop that_," he rasped. His smoke-ravaged lungs robbed his voice of its intended authority. The thing in the next cot went still.

"the bugs thebugsthebugs they keep

keep coming

out of the Wheel of the Sun

the Eye of the Sun

like a fountain

sees me seesmeseesmeand

it

buuUURNNNNSSS**SSSAAA****ARRRRRGGGGHHH****!**"

Its shriek provoked the other cot-bound Things around them.

"Samsa, you fuckwit!"

"Shaddup, shaddup, SHAD_**DUP**_!"

"Muh-Morphine…"

B inhaled slowly through his nose. The intake elicited searing pain from his lungs, and the intended sigh turned into a splutter. His eyes stung at the bloom of agony in his chest, and B cursed the woman Naomi Misora. A few _moments!_ He would have died triumphant in his blaze of glory. Triumphant and _free_ from the wretched, insectile _Things_ of the world instead of incapacitated among them as he now was.

There was a tug on the sleeve of his hospital gown. B whipped his head around—neck cracking audibly—and tried to make out what it was he was caught on. It was a hand. The Thing in the next cot gibbered and tugged again. Repulsed, B jerked away. It held fast to his sleeve.

"the Eye

sees me

you have to help"

Its voice was hushed; hoarse with what B guessed was fear.

"No." He did not bother to disguise the lack of affect in his voice.

"you must the Eye it

watches sends

bugs the bugs the

curses

word salad

echolaliaiaia

help meeeee…"

Its whisper trailed off into hitching sobs. It did not release his sleeve. For lack of his thumb, B ran his tongue across the fronts of his upper row of teeth. So It had an organic thought disorder…interesting. The plan formed almost unbidden. This was going to be a fascinating experiment.

"What is your name?"  
>"…" It did not answer, preferring instead to rock back and forth in Its own cot without releasing B's sleeve. Aggravated now, B ran his tongue hastily over his teeth again.<p>

"If you don't tell me, I won't help you."  
>It whimpered, and spoke.<p>

"sometimes I have to think whetheretherether to answer when people ask my name because

the Eye

always watching always…"

It trailed off. B's eyebrows knitted for as long as his raw skin would permit. Irksome. To complete this experiment, B would have to approach it from a different angle. Within moments, he had assumed the persona befitting the situation. "I wonder, are you familiar with the correlation between names and power?" He made his voice quiet, conspiratorial. It said nothing. B continued, unfazed, "It is said that when you give someone your name, you're giving that person a vital piece of you with which they can work all manner of spells."

It stopped rocking.

B licked his lips. This part of the experiment required the subjects mind to be in just the right malleable state of delusion to succeed. B drew himself as close to the partition in the hospital curtain as his restraints would allow, and whispered as if divulging some great and deadly secret.

"If we trade names, I can take the Eye away from you."

It dropped B's sleeve. The offer hung in the air for several seconds, growing stagnant. B was about to consider the experiment a failure, when It spoke.

"samsa granger samsa"

B allowed himself the indulgence of a smile. The first step of his plan had been executed smoothly.

"My name is Beyond Birthday."

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: Death Note (manga, animation, novels, etc.), its story, and characters are the property, copyright and trademark of Taugumi OhbaTakeshi Obata/SHUEISHA Inc./Madhouse/DNDP/VAP, and no ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by their use in the work(s) of fan fiction presented here. This fan fiction constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This fan fiction is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	2. Chapter 2

He could almost feel the little nurse-Thing's aggravation across the room, even if he could not read it on her face.

"I _really_ don't think that's regulation," It said.

"I _really _don't think you're prepared for the consequences if you're wrong," B replied, adjusting his voice to mirror Its admonishing tone. The nurse-Thing sighed theatrically, and went to fetch him a phone. B listened to the crepe soles of Its shoes whisper down the hall and return a few minutes later. He narrowed his eyes, quickly memorizing Its name as it re-entered the room. Tanya. Hnnnn.

"Here," It tossed the phone lightly onto his abdomen. He glared at it for a moment, then up at It, waiting for the small gears in Its head to clack together.

"Oh, no_._ I'm _pos_itive _that's_ against regulation," It strained to keep Its bedside manner regulation-pleasant. B jangled his cuffs and smiled at It.

"Law dictates that I have the right to call my lawyer. Attorney-Client privilege gives me the right to privacy during that call. If I'm to have privacy, I'll need my hands in order to hold and dial the phone."

The nurse-Thing brooded as It mulled B's logic over. Finally, It acquiesced with another dramatic sigh and left again to fetch the key to B's handcuffs. When It returned, It had brought a doctor-Thing with It. This one was called Kaufmann. B ran his tongue thoughtfully over his upper row of teeth.

"Okay, Mr. Birthday. You have half an hour in which to conduct your business with your lawyer. We'll move you to the private room during this time. I would like to remind you that there are video cameras stationed in that room, and you _will_ be monitored. The cameras don't pick up sound, so let's not get litigious about your rights to privacy. No funny stuff." After this brief speech the doctor-Thing unlocked his handcuffs, and the nurse-Thing transferred B to a waiting wheel chair. They re-cuffed him to its sturdy arms, no doubt expecting him to attempt some form of escape. However, B was the picture of complacency as they wheeled him back to the private room.

It was a small, sepulchral room no larger than a storage closet. The walls were painted the same sterile white of the prison-ward. The freshly-waxed linoleum squeaked as the wheels of B's chair crossed it. The scent of antiseptic stung B's raw olfactory nerves. He glanced up at the camera stationed in the room's upper right corner. It was a sleek, black orb the kind of which one might find in a bank. The doctor-Thing hadn't been lying: In B's experience, these models could not record sound. Good. When the door was securely shut behind him, B began to chuckle.

"Aha-hahahaha…no, that's not quite right, is it? Hyeh-hehehe…Oh well."

He flipped open the cell phone the nurse-Thing had provided him, and positioned himself away from the camera. It would be an amateur mistake to allow them to record him speaking. No use risking the possibility that one of them might read lips.

B rifled through the hospital phone's contact list, unconsciously knitting his brows as he struggled to read the blurry names. He found the number he was looking for, and hastily smoothed the muscles of his forehead. Damn these burns. As the phone rang, B ran the ball of his thumb over the fronts of his top row of teeth. If this call did not go through, the whole experiment could be compromised. The phone rang twice, three times, four times…and then the chirrup-y voice of a woman answered.

"Community Memorial Hospital Records, Mr. Jackson's office, how may I direct your call?"

"Yes, may I speak to director Jackson?"

"Mr. Jackson isn't in right now. This is his secretary speaking. May I take a message?" Its voice was young, wavering. This could work. Quickly, B switched tactics.

"This is Dr. Kaufmann. I'd like to leave a message for him regarding…I'm sorry to pry, but are you new? I could swear Mr. Jackson's secretary was much older the last time I spoke with her." B matched his voice to the timber and cadence of the doctor-Thing.

"O-oh…yes, this is my first day Dr. Kaufmann. I'm Sally Clark. What was that message…?"

Hnnn. Perfect.

"Yes, sorry. I'm calling about two of the recent patients admitted to our burn ward, Granger Samsa and Beyond Birthday. Well, it…this isn't easy for me to say…it seems one of our nurses, Tanya, has mixed up their admittance files."

"Oh dear!" Its voice was stodgy with false sympathy.

"Yes..." B crooned, "Seems we've been calling the wrong man by the wrong name for a whole week. Naturally, we don't want anyone finding out about this. Don't want anyone to get litigious, you know?"

"Uh huh…" Its voice now lilted towards uncertainty.

"Say, Miss Clark…do you think you could do me a favor?"

B could almost hear It become tense.  
>"The files would be in Mr. Jackson's records, would they not? Would you please…switch the names back for me?"<p>

"Uhm…"

"Please. I'll dance at your wedding if you do me this one eensy favor. It would save me the hassle of playing phone-tag with Mr. Jackson."

"Well…I don't know if I should. Maybe I should ask…"  
>"Do you want to risk currying disfavor on your first day?"<p>

"…Well, all right."

"Thank you, Sally."

B smiled as he ran the ball of his thumb across his upper row of teeth.

The Samsa-Thing twitched.

B could see him twitch. His eyesight had slowly been regenerating these last few days. Regenerating was a good word, ah yes, because regenerating was exactly what his eyes were doing. B could _feel_ it. His burns were slowly receding, as well. It could, perhaps, be attributed to the same supernatural force that afforded him the ability to see the names and life spans of the myriad _Things_ that shambled around him.

The Samsa-Thing twitched again.

The rubbing alcohol B was splashing It with must be cold. It whimpered.  
>"Now, now, Samsa. If we want to deceive the Eye, we will have to make you look more like I do." B's grin felt too wide on his face. Was it the careful amalgamation of kindliness and friendship he thought it was? No matter.<p>

It spoke finally, its eyes wide with what B assumed was fear.

"are you

The Eye

Finally caught

finally caught me

The Eye?"

B could not contain his wide smirk now. He lit a match and the Samsa-thing twitched again, B's handcuffs holding It to Its bed. "You might say that," he chuckled, "After all, I _am_ a visionary."

B dropped the match, listened to Its hiss turn into a scream, and pressed the call button for the nurse. It would not die, he thought as he ducked into a storage closet. No, It would not die, he thought as he changed his clothes for those of the now incapacitated janitor. B walked confidently down the halls of Community Memorial, past a nurse rushing for the burn ward. No, It would certainly not die, he thought as he walked out the hospital's front door. It was not Its time.


	3. Chapter 3

The death of Granger Samsa went essentially un-mourned. At the beginning, there was a ten-paragraph article on page four. The next day afforded a single paragraph on page seven. On the day after, Granger Samsa's demise could not be found in any newspaper. The real Granger Samsa would probably be offended, B thought, if It were able to read newspapers. B had done a far better job staging his—Samsa's—suicide than he had executing his own. Tch.

The newspapers would have you believe that the body of Granger Samsa had been found in Its cot. It was identified by the single tooth they were able to recover, and Its fingerprints were so badly scorched that they were untraceable. Beyond Birthday in the neighboring cot was seriously burned, and his grafted skin had to be replaced.

So far, the experiment was a success.

There remained some flaws in his plan, however; flaws that B was certain L would sniff out in short time. Certainly any detective with half a brain would be suspicious that just one tooth had been found in the corpse's mouth. The ID of the body was dubious at best. L would be on his trail almost immediately, B was sure. If he wanted to preserve this new-found freedom for a while, he would have to lay low.

It took almost a full day to travel by train from Union Station to Larimer County, Colorado. Nearly a full day in the cramped, sweaty passenger car surrounded by throngs of braying, flatulent, bothersome _Things_. It was nearly unbearable. As he sat among the ululating infants and the gibbering adults, B remained perfectly still. His field of vision was overwhelmingly bleary with the amalgam of names and lifespans around him. B endured. With the thought of going another round with L swimming in his head—making him giddy—B endured.

Finally, Colorado. As the sun began to set, the charred ruins of an old hotel caught B's eye. He remembered hearing about this hotel when he first secured his place up here. The caretaker apparently went crazy and blew up the place via the boiler. The hotel was also rumored to be haunted, but then what hotel wasn't? His vision had not recovered enough to see clearly—especially in the light of the setting sun—but he could make out the twisted, conflagrated hunks of metal bursting forth from the snowdrifts. They were like gnarled fingers grasping for the overcast sky. As the train passed the ruins, a wasp landed on the window. B frowned. In this weather, wasps should be…but then it was gone.

The train pulled into the station, and B managed to bump his way past the crowd out the door. The crowd finally dispersed after he was passed the station. Thank goodness for small favors. That was the extent of his luck today; it was a long trek to his cabin from here.

B's cabin was deep in the woods, nearer to Rocky Mountain National Park than anything else. He had bought it years ago specifically for its solitude, on the off chance that he would find himself in the type of situation he was in now.

He trudged through the fallen snow, his breath emerging in haggard plumes. Although his eyes had been healing faster than normal, his lungs remained raw. Within minutes, he was wheezing. It was penetratingly cold, and the wind cut easily through B's thin shirt.

"Muh-my kingdom f-for some warm clothes," B spat through chattering teeth.

After a gelid half-hour's walk, the cabin finally loomed ahead of him. It was an older house, originally built in 1909. Moss grew over the sloped wooden roof, and ivy crept up the un-hewn supports. Aside from these signs of disuse, B was pleased to note that the storm windows remained intact. The cabin was well-insulated, and it was sure to be warmer inside. The scent of evergreen was thick in the air; overwhelming B's healing sense of smell and wakening him from his reverie. He jogged to the front door, dug in his pocket, and jammed the key into the lock before his shaking hands could drop it.

It was indeed warmer inside, but not by much. When B attempted to flip on the lights, he was dismayed to find that most of the bulbs had blown out. He growled, not relishing the thought of a foray back into town the next day to pick up new ones. A quick scan of the room revealed a thick coat of dust over all the furniture. The musty scent hit him worse than that of the evergreen, and he reeled back against the door. Light bulbs weren't the only thing he'd be procuring tomorrow. If he were to live here, he would have to stock up on cleaning supplies. He continued the perusal, taking in the small couch, the dust-covered mirror, the stairs leading to the loft, and the cellar door. He smiled and ran the ball of his thumb across his upper row of teeth.

"I'm ho-o-ome!" He called to the empty house and then began to chuckle, "Henh henh henh henh."


	4. Chapter 4

_Fire_

_B was_

_on fire and_

_he could smell_

_the meat_

_his flesh_

_roasting the fat bubbling and popping_

_and _

_it_

_buuuu**uuuUUURRRNNNDAAAAAGH**_

"—ggh!" The guttural end of his dreamed cry rousted him from sleep. Before his mind had fully caught up to wakefulness, he registered that he was searing hot. No wonder—he was lying on his front before the fire.

Beyond Birthday perched and sat upon the old couch, contemplating the fire in its hearth. From somewhere upstairs, the clock chimed. Eight, nine, ten o clock. He would never get back to sleep at this rate. Fire. Snow. B was sick. The smoke—cloying and spicy—burned in his lungs with each inhale. This weather, his weakened immune system…he should have known, should have prepared, should have…A cold sweat coated his body, matting his hair to his forehead in damp clumps. Fever. Sweat. Fire. Snow. To his spinning mind, the dichotomy was fascinating. Better to think of the double helix of temperature than what lay behind the sheet covering the mirror. He was too cold. He was too warm. He listened to the whispers and crepitations of the flame. It was almost as if it was talking to him. Cajoling. _Beguiling._ Silently, he raised a finger to touch the healing skin graft on his face. He winced, as he had when first surprised by his reflection in the mirror. The sting was sub-dermal.

L. All these years of developing the perfect farce and he would never be able to act the part again. How could one surpass a position if one could not even match it? No amount of makeup would be able to salvage this. It had been so long since he'd _seen_ L. Would his hair be the same length as B's anymore? Did it matter now?

The clock chimed again. B swiveled his neck owlishly in the direction of the sound. How many times was it chiming? Ten, eleven, twelve…midnight. B frowned. The last time the clock chimed was a mere five minutes ago. Or had it? With a growl, he held the inside of his wrist to his forehead. He burned as hotly as the fire. Perhaps he had lost track of time. Perhaps his musings had turned to a half-sleep. Perhaps—the clock was chiming again. Eleven, twelve, thirteen. From the cellar, B heard the tinkling laughter of a small child. His lips pulled off his teeth in a grimace. _Who was in his house? What thing __**dared?**_ Slowly—oh so slowly—he set his bare feet down on the wooden floor. He stalked towards the cellar, his gait predatory. Closer, now. Closer. If someone was down there, B would see their name and lifespan—even through the dark. He could track them—

_**BANG**_

From beneath the cellar door.

Two things happened at once: first, B's eyes began to burn. Then, everything went hazy. _Had someone released some sort of toxin? _He yowled, hands clawing at his conflagrating eyes, and charged. No need for silent hunting now; the intruder was trapped in the cellar. B pounced across the floor to the cellar door, ripped it open, and yanked on the light.

The light flooded the cellar, leaving darkness only in the corners.

Darkness there, and nothing more.


End file.
